Watching My Enemy Fall
by Daughter of Thranduil
Summary: The final part of my 'Cromwell's Mistress' trilogy. Isabel was frustrated that the men who betrayed Cromwell had escaped retribution. Only Seymour is left...but his time has come at last!


**This fic was written for the Archives of Excellence September challenge: 'Worst enemies'. **

This is the final piece in my 'Cromwell's Mistress' trilogy. Thank you so much for the lovely reviews left for parts one and two! Reviews for part three will be, as always, gratefully appreciated! :)

* * *

"_Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when he stumbles, do not let your heart rejoice." _Proverbs

**January, 1552**

They say a true Christian should forgive even their gravest enemies, but this was something I was never able to accomplish, and I fear I never shall. I never in my life felt such a sense of grim satisfaction as the day that the word spread around the city of London that Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset was to die. The silver-tongued, cold-hearted, ruthless bastard had finally had the tables turned on him and was to die on the twenty-second, convicted of treason. He was finally to get what he deserved!

We heard the news in the morning, from one of my husband's fellow lawyers, and in the privacy of my bedchamber, when Cedric and Thomas had departed for Lincoln's Inn (he was educating Thomas in the law, and had been bringing him to his chambers of work every day for several weeks) I sat on the bed and wept tears of savage joy. Every day for the last twelve years I had ceaselessly prayed that one day my lover, Sir Thomas Cromwell, would be avenged. It was he who was my Thomas's true father, though dear Cedric had brought him up as his own.

Before I married Cedric, I had been a servant at Whitehall Palace; and in the reshuffling of the domestic staff after Anne Boleyn was killed, I was given the place of Lord Cromwell's chambermaid. In the course of time, I became his mistress. Our son had been conceived on the very last night I had spent in Thomas Cromwell's bed; the night before he had been falsely accused of treason at the hands of Charles Brandon, Sir Edward Seymour and Sir Francis Bryan, and hauled off to the Tower.

I had bribed the guard with stolen money in order to be able to visit him during his incarceration and found him defeated and resigned to his fate. We had comforted each other as best we could in the brief allowance of time I had been permitted with him and, as I was hauled away by the guard, I screamed for the whole Tower to hear that I loved him. Those were the last words I ever said to him, and the next morning, he was beheaded.

As I assumed my new duties as a chambermaid for Lady Juliette Winchester, I was subjected to hearing all the sick, morbid gossip which always rippled around the court following a high-profile execution. I almost fainted on the spot when Alice, a fellow servant, gleefully told me that Seymour and Bryan had got the executioner blind drunk the night before, so that when he came to delivering Thomas's fatal blow, he was so out of sorts that he botched it. It took three gruesome strikes before Thomas's head came off, but he had endured it in proud silence. I vomited upon hearing that story and the thought still makes my stomach retch to this day.

I found out that I was carrying Thomas's child a few weeks after that and Cedric Malton, who had always been a very dear friend of mine, discovered my plight and asked for my hand in marriage. He said that he looked for companionship, not love, nor physical satisfaction, and that he would ask no more of me other than to preside over his house and see run the domesticities of his private life. I accepted gratefully, seeing it as my baby's only chance, and in our own unusual way, we have been quite happy together these twelve years, our relationship built on a deep friendship and true companionship.

However, the void that was created in me when Thomas died never truly went away. Although little Thomas, my son, had my whole heart and more; there were still the thorns of hate and anger nestled firmly in my bosom, and they continued to fester poisonously as the years flew past. I regarded Brandon, Seymour and Bryan as my mortal enemies – they had deprived me of the man I loved, and they had deprived my little boy of his true father. I prayed over and over again, until I lost count of the times, that God would see fit to punish them for their transgressions; to make they pay for what they'd put me through....

But He didn't.

Brandon died two years before the king did; a far more peaceful end than he deserved for a man who had spent his life committing adultery with any woman who took his fancy, and had sweet-talked half the serving maids in Whitehall into his bed at one point or another (including myself, when I was young and stupid) before discarding them and moving on. He'd come to such prominence by helping the king to do the same; taking notes to whichever mistress he was obsessed with at the time and helping him to get rid of whatever wife stood in the way. He'd thought of nothing but himself and his own pleasures, caring not a jot what miseries he'd cast either of his wives into. Brandon had been a selfish and heartless man, but he never had to answer for it.

King Henry himself died in 1547; a sick and sad old glutton, having murdered or driven away all those who had cared for him and tried to help him. Good Queen Katherine, cast aside so that he could marry that whore Anne Boleyn; Sir Thomas More, sent to the block for daring to have a conscience; Cardinal Fisher, a venerable old man who died for being brave enough to say what he thought, Queen Jane – God rest her – he could not have helped, I grant; poor Anne of Cleves, abandoned and humiliated as he decided that he did not like how she looked and then he listened to those liars and took Thomas from me; Thomas who had been the most loyal and faithful servant he had ever had.

And to contradict that, he seemed to gather close to him all those who were unworthy and unkind: Anne Boleyn, the scheming harlot; Sir Thomas Boleyn, her father, constantly seeking wealth and advancement for his family no matter what the price; Wolsey, who double-crossed him and played false with the French; Katherine Howard, the silly little slut who tried to have an affair right under his nose; Charles Brandon, whom he made Duke of Suffolk, a bastard who did not know the meaning of the word fidelity; Francis Bryan, the epitome of smug debauchery and Edward Seymour, who took advantage of the King's fond memories for his dead sister and used them to gain precedence, ruthlessly stamping on whoever got in his way as he clawed his way up to the ultimate power; even sending his own younger brother to the block. But now, that power would fall. Edward Seymour was going to die. And I was so, so glad!

But I was not satisfied...

Even with the knowledge that Seymour would be dead within a week – the last of my enemies gone at last - I could not be content. I had to have revenge! I could not make his death a painful experience, for I had no chance to bribe the executioner, or to get him drunk. However, I could ensure that Seymour went to the block with quaking knees and a heart of water; showing himself up for the cowardly dog he truly was.

In the madness of my emotions, I began to plan.

I knew exactly where he was being held, and so when I departed with my basket to buy bread and meat at the market on the day before he was to die, I took a detour. I retraced my steps of twelve years before, finding myself outside the terrifying bulk of the Tower of London. I paid one of the guards – money which I'd earned myself by stitching several gowns for a neighbour of ours, who was not very talented with a needle – to let me into the tower. I told him that I was Seymour's mistress, that I was going distracted in my distress, and that I just _had _to see him.

"Well, you ain't the only one, woman," said the bearded guard with vindictive relish, stuffing the handful of coins deep into his pocket. "You're the third today. Seems His Grace up there liked a bit of rough and tumble." I set my face – what was it to me how many mistresses the bastard had had – and attempted to make a good show of being anguished.

I was led up the winding stone stairs of the closest turret, my stomach lurching as memories overwhelmed me. He was leading me to the same cell as Thomas had been held in. The parallel was distressingly exact. I sternly reminded myself though, that this vile man deserved it!

The guard, officious and self-important in the bright livery of King Edward, led me to the door of the cell and rapped his pike against the iron grating.

"Visitor, your Grace," he called smugly, before turning back to me. "Five minutes, you." He departed once again in a jangle of keys.

I peered through the grating as a slumped figure, wrapped in a blanket, emerged from a corner. With a surge of pure hate, I recognised Edward Seymour; my last living enemy. He was in a dreadful state – pale as a ghost, his chin unshaven, a terrified expression on his once sneering countenance. He suddenly noticed me and rushed to the grating.

"Whose servant are you, goodwife?" he asked frantically, his dirty face strained and drawn. "Do you bring a message? Tell me, what news?"

"I am no one's servant," I answered coldly, the loathing in my stomach as thick as bile. I hated him so much I could barely get my words out. "But I _do_ bring a message. Prepare for a little surprise on the morrow, my lord." He stared at me in confusion and I laughed, the bitter sound echoing off the stone walls. "I doubt you recognise me. I was Thomas Cromwell's mistress; he was the father of my child." Seymour went pale. "And those of us loyal to his memory have decided that a little vengeance is in order."

And now I put my great plan into action. I began to lie through my teeth, hoping that God would forgive me for it. Even if He didn't, it was worth it just to see the terror on Seymour's face. He had clearly not forgotten what he had done to Thomas Cromwell. "You made sure that the man I loved died painfully." I spat at him. "Now I shall return the favour. We have bribed the executioner, Seymour, and requested that he be a little...clumsy. You will suffer what Thomas had to suffer, tenfold!"

"That is a lie, you bitch! Who sent you here?" Seymour roared at me desperately. But I could see the horror in his eyes as he began to fear for his own miserable neck.

"I told you, I am no one's servant. Until the morrow, my lord," I gave him a mocking bow as a harsh laugh burst from my tense throat. "Sleep well. Look for me tomorrow morning – I shall be right at the front; ready to watch you suffer."

Shaking with suppressed emotion, I turned away and made for the door. I positively ran down the stairs, past the officious guard and out into London once more.

* * *

The next morning, I was as good as my word. I had never had the stomach for executions, and always though it morbid that people would swarm to the scaffold to see a noble die. Today though, I stood right at the front of the throng, my heart pounding in my chest. The executioner stood by the block on the scaffold, leaning on his axe with a dreadful nonchalance; looking as calm as though he were stood in a marketplace. It was a scene that had been horrifically common during Henry's reign.

The murmur of the crowd died down as Seymour was led to the scaffold. He was a pathetic sight, trembling and pale, and he looked around the crowd with a fevered intensity.

He saw me.

I saw his lips begin to tremble and his hands begin to shake all the more. I smiled icily, almost able to taste the bitterness which was threatening to consume me, and inclined my head mockingly. I saw that he now believed the lies I had told him the day before. Now that his moment had come – Edward Seymour was snivelling like a child.

As he gave his last speech, his eyes swivelling back to me every ten seconds, his words were stilted and uncertain. He claimed repentance for all his sins, desired that the crowd would most earnestly pray for the king his nephew and then at last took his position at the block, his knees knocking as he knelt. The headsman reached for his axe.

As the axe came down, I shut my eyes, feeling my stomach recoil as my face was splattered with a spot of blood - Seymour's blood. Thomas had been avenged at last! The executioner held the severed head up, blood dripping from the gory slash he had made.

"So perish all the king's enemies!" he cried in a deep, gruff voice as he brandished the disgusting spectacle. "Here is the head of a traitor!"

It was done.

* * *

How I made it back to Chancery Lane, I shall never know, but I eventually managed to stagger through the door of my home, collapsed in a chair by the window, and I wept. The sobs jolted out of me violently, out of my control. I wept with savage satisfaction, triumph, and yet...emptiness.

Seymour's death could not bring Thomas back. The last of my enemies had fallen, but I would still never again see the man I had loved so strongly. It had taken twelve years for justice to be done, but suddenly, I missed Thomas more than ever. Revenge was indeed a bittersweet thing!

When Cedric returned with Thomas that evening, my astute young son rushed to me as soon as he noticed that something was amiss.

"What is the matter, Mamma?" he asked anxiously, kneeling down next to me. I looked at him through tired eyes, and saw Thomas Cromwell looking back at me. My son was the very image of his father.

"It is nothing darling," I reassured him, and drew him into my arms. I felt Cedric's gentle hand on my right shoulder. I leant my cheek against it and let out a deep breath.

At last, justice had been done. Losing Thomas would weigh heavy on my heart until the day I died but now that Seymour, the last and worst of my enemies, had fallen, the thorns of hate were gone at last. Perhaps now I could be at peace.


End file.
